


The Devil He Knows (the Contract of the Cat remix)

by misura



Category: Pet Shop of Horrors, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-21
Updated: 2012-04-21
Packaged: 2017-11-04 01:26:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/388122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misura/pseuds/misura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there is some ado about a cat, a contract and a dead body.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Devil He Knows (the Contract of the Cat remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Delphi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphi/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Devil He Knows](https://archiveofourown.org/works/240369) by [Delphi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphi/pseuds/Delphi). 



"A contract," Sherlock says, as if _that_ 's the important thing here, as if _that_ 's the detail to be focusing on here.

The room looks like a scene straight out of a horror movie, one of those slasher things with more blood than plot. (Lestrade dragged Sherlock along to see one, once, because the only alternative was a romantic comedy, and Sherlock criticizing a slasher movie is infitnitely preferable to Sherlock waxing prosaically about the human delusion of love.)

The not-a-count smiles his snake-like smile. His lips are too red - and that's a relief, Lestrade thinks, to be able to look at the man, thing, whatever and think _'suspicious smile, lips too red'_. "Of course. All our clients are required to sign them."

"What, like, I solemnly swear to take good care of Fluffy?"

If Sherlock is the alien but human one, John is the human and _only_ human one. Good to have around in times of crisis, or just when you're having a pint with the boys and girls from the Yard and don't want to be the only one kicking Sherlock under the table when he needs to put a sock in it.

"Something like that." A rustle of clothes as a piece of paper is produced. Lestrade reaches for it - _'the nails,'_ he thinks. _'I'd forgotten about the nails. Could they be used to - '_ but Sherlock beats him to it.

Sherlock's wearing gloves, still. "Well. This seems perfectly clear."

"What's it say?" Lestrade is curious in spite of himself.

Sherlock doesn't look up from the contract. Lestrade's not even sure if he's heard the question at all, not until John says: "Sherlock?" in a tone that's half-scolding and half-exasperated and entirely familiar to anyone who's ever worked with Sherlock and likes him.

"Change water mornings and evenings, no collars, and no feeding after midnight." Sherlock lifts his head and frowns. "No clear definition of what's 'after midnight' and what's 'morning' though, which I'd have to say is sloppy. Other than that, as I said, perfectly clear."

"And what, exactly, does this have to do with the case?"

It's John who asks, of course - John, the sensible one. The straight-up, what-you-see-is-what-you-get one. For a moment, Lestrade almost wishes John hadn't come, but then he'd have been stuck here with just Sherlock.

This time, the smile seems directed just at him, _mocking_ him. Lestrade's hands turn into fists in his pockets, and that's _good_ , he tells himself. Wanting to hit a strange-looking owner of a pet shop. That's just fine. _'Maybe it was the incense after all,_ he thinks. _'Just nerves and the incense. Can get to a man's head, things like that.'_ And he was younger, back then, and memory's a tricky thing, unless you're Sherlock Bloody Holmes.

Sherlock says nothing, and Lestrade wonders what he sees, what he _deduces_. A man's dead.

There's the soft sound of tap-tap-tap. Lestrade's reaching for his gun when he turns - pure instinct, really. A dead body torn to shreds, and the sound of clawed feet on a kitchen floor.

"Ah." Neither mockery nor amusement now, but merely fondness. (Lestrade wishes he didn't remember this one, too.)

"And where have you been hiding out then, hm?" John is kneeling down, reaching out. Lestrade feels a twitch in his right hand, the one closest to his gun. Only Sherlock sees, he thinks, which is probably good. It's just a cat, after all.

It allows John to pet it, then scratch its head. It purrs, even, eyes closed and all. _'I should get Anderson in here, swab those claws,'_ Lestrade thinks, although really, what would it prove? Cats don't kill people. There's blood all over the floor.

"I do believe she likes you. Perhaps you would like to - "

"No," Lestrade says, too sharply. John looks startled. Sherlock, like Lestrade's just told him a secret.

"She, is it?" John gets up, smiling. "Sorry, not really a pet person." Sherlock snorts audibly. "Busy day job, all that."

"Of course. I understand." The cat starts purring again when it gets picked up. A neat trick, that; like any servant of the law, Lestrade's done his fair share of pet rescues. He considers himself lucky he got off without any lasting scars and with both hands. "Will that be all, then, Detective Inspector?"

Soho all over again. No proof, no traces, no _reasonable_ suspicion. "For now, yes. Please keep yourself available in case we have any further questions."

The cat yawns. Its teeth are very sharp. As cat's teeth usually are. "Happy to have been of assistance."

 

"Death by stupidity," Sherlock says, cool and collected and utterly impossible, but also naked, which means Lestrade lets him get away with far too much. "Clearly."

"What - he fed the cat after midnight so he deserved to die?" Sherlock's body, at least, is warm. Pale skin, yes, and more bone than meat, but warm, all the same. Comfortable. Human, and familiar by now in a way Sherlock's mind will never be.

A scoff. "It's not about _deserving_ ; it's simple cause and effect. He was warned, he chose to ignore the warning, and there were consequences."

Lestrade still remembers his first murder victim. "A man's _dead_ , Sherlock."

"Case solved, bored now. Got anything new and interesting?"

"I'm going to sleep. Good night."

With any luck, he won't dream.


End file.
